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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29893683">Eye of the Beholder</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanFreckles/pseuds/SylvanFreckles'>SylvanFreckles</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Artist Castiel, Fluff, Gen, Headcanon, Sam Is a Good Friend, Souls</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 17:41:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,217</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29893683</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanFreckles/pseuds/SylvanFreckles</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam encourages Cas to try to express himself by taking up drawing. It seems to be a lost cause...until Castiel tries to draw Sam’s soul.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel &amp; Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>46</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Eye of the Beholder</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Just something soft and warm and hopeful after Febuwhump</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sam leaned against the low wall surrounding the picnic area park and let his head tip back to catch the warmth from the sun. They'd hit this town to check on rumors of a demonic possession at the local college, only to find Claire and Kaia had beat them here and pretty much had the whole thing taken care of. Now, he was enjoying just keeping an ear on the banter as Dean checked over the girls' gear and Jack chattered enthusiastically about the old fantasy novels he'd found on one of the rooms at the bunker (apparently Kaia had heard of the author and they were bonding, much to Claire's amusement).</p><p>A hint of movement at his side had him cracking one eye open to see Cas settle into a similar posture. Watching Dean and the kids with a fond look on his face, Cas caught Sam's eye with a smile. “He's good at that.”</p><p>“Dean's always been good with kids,” Sam agreed. “Probably because he still acts like he's twelve.”</p><p>Cas gave a very un-angelic snort, and Sam shifted around enough to watch the angel now. He couldn't remember when life had been this peaceful before. There were hunts still, sure, but it finally seemed like there wasn't some big bad pulling the strings behind it all. He couldn't remember a time in his life that had been like this—just the routine of the hunt and home, with their own network of friends and family.</p><p>It took him a moment to realize Cas's attention wasn't on the others anymore. The angel was looking out across the park at a mural painted on higher wall that ran around the park's perimeter. He was pretty it was a memorial to the town's history as part of the underground railroad, based on what he'd learned before they got here.</p><p>“I think the high school kids work on that every year,” Sam commented, nudging Cas with his shoulder. “When I was researching the town I found an article that said it was one of their graduating projects, and every year a group of students repairs and restores the mural.”</p><p>Cas shook his head and looked back at Sam. “Humanity's capacity for creation will always amaze me.”</p><p>Sam blinked. He hadn't...thought about it like that. Dean had always said Cas was just a weird little nerd, but was that why he always seemed to stop when he saw a statue, or a carving, or a painting? That it wasn't a type of art he preferred, but he was appreciating the human act of creating art?</p><p>“Have you ever tried?” Sam asked, trying to be casual about it. “Making something, I mean.”</p><p>The look Cas shot him was quick, but Sam thought his friend looked grieved. “Angels weren't made to create. We can only replicate.”</p><p>Sam started to protest, but hesitated. Zachariah's Beautiful Room...he'd offered Dean things from Dean's past, not some idealized thing he'd want. Gabriel had pulled from human television to make his TV world. Even Lucifer, in creating Jack, had used a human body to impregnate a human, not some celestial act of creation.</p><p>“Have you ever tried?” he repeated.</p><p>Cas pushed away from the wall. “There's enough in this world to admire,” he replied, though he wouldn't meet Sam's eyes and his shoulders remained tense. “You don't need my...'pitiful scratchings'.”</p><p>* * *</p><p>Cas's words twisted through Sam's head as he followed the others through the small downtown area back toward the hotel. Had Cas ever tried to make something around them? Had one of them said something like that? Or was this some distant event from heaven, some other angel stomping out any fraction of individuality?</p><p>He pulled up as they passed a small, disorganized craft store. “Hey, go ahead without me,” Sam called when Dean turned around. “We need a couple things.”</p><p>Sam waited until the others turned away, giving Jack a reassuring nod and smile, before pushing the door open and slipping inside the store. It was cramped inside, with shelves and bins overflowing, and the smell of cinnamon and beeswax filling the air. It wasn't <em>completely</em><span> a lie...they always needed things like natural pigments and scraps of leather for hex bags, and some places sold essential oils or crystals he liked to keep on hand for emergencies.</span></p><p>
  <span>It just wasn't why he was here now. He squeezed past a rack of wooden beads and nearly knocked a dressmaker's mannequin over, but finally found the drawing section. The sketchbooks were easy enough to sort through—he grabbed a large one with a dark cover that had an elastic band to keep it closed when not in use. The pages were about the size of a standard sheet of printer paper, so it was big enough for Cas to have lots of room to experiment on each page but small enough to travel with him. The drawing supplies, though, were a little harder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam stared at the selection of pencils, paints, and markers. If Cas had truly never tried something like this before, where could he even begin? Would he want something like colored pencils, that would have a smooth texture on the page but need to be kept sharpened? Or paints, which might be easier to blend and shade but wouldn't be portable? Or start with the very basics and get a box of crayons and hope Cas didn't think it was too childish?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A long, flat box at the end of the shelf caught his eye. Pastels. He had a flash of memory of one of Jess's friends in college who worked with pastels, the way their hands swept over the canvas to leave bright ribbons of color and then darted back to smooth and shade. Sam could suddenly imagine Cas, pastel stick in hand, a smear of pigment on his chin, brow furrowed in concentration as he filled a canvas with bright color.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He bought the sketchbook and pastels plus some silver charms to make a stronger protection hex bag for Claire's car, to make it seem like the drawing supplies had been a spur-of-the-moment thing. By the time he got back to the hotel Dean had already ordered pizza, while Kaia and Jack had Claire sandwiched between them on the couch as they tried to convince her to watch an old fantasy movie with them (Sam was on their side, </span>
  <em>Willow</em>
  <span> was awesome). Cas looked up from picking at the label on his beer bottle when Sam walked up to the table, eyes widening further in surprise when Sam set the bag from the craft store down in front of him and presented the drawing supplies with a flourish.</span>
</p><p>“<span>I thought you might like to try,” Sam explained as he pulled out a chair and sat down next to Cas at the room's little table. “I mean, I'd kind of be interested in seeing an angel's...uh...'pitiful scratchings', you know?”</span></p><p>
  <span>Cas hesitantly ran the tips of his fingers over the dark cover of the sketchbook. “Sam...”</span>
</p><p>“<span>Just try?” he suggested. He scooted closer so that his shoulder brushed Cas's, knowing the physical contact helped when the angel was dealing with something new or difficult. “No one's gonna laugh if you can't do it. Well, maybe Dean, but he's an ass.”</span></p><p>“<span>I heard that!” Dean shouted. As far as Sam could tell, his brother was completely focused on something on his phone. That was obviously just an automatic response.</span></p><p>
  <span>The angel was quiet. Then, slowly, he tugged the pastels out of the bag and lifted the lid of the box. The colors almost seemed to glow under the room's overhead light, and Cas gently brushed the bright gold stick with the tip of one finger. “I'll try.”</span>
</p><p>“<span>Good,” Sam bumped Cas's shoulder with his own, then leaned a little more closely against him, grounding him. “I can't wait.”</span></p><p>
  <span>* * *</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam bit his lip as he flipped through the first few pages of Cas's sketchbook. The angel leaned against the table almost despondently, arms folded across his chest and head tipped forward so that Sam couldn't see his eyes.</span>
</p><p>“<span>These are good,” Sam said, trying to sound encouraging. “I mean, they look just like the, uh, things you were sketching. That's...that's good.”</span></p><p>
  <span>Technically speaking, the sketches were good. There was a vase of wild flowers Kaia had put on the kitchen table the second day of her and Claire's visit. The bust of one of the old Men of Letters. Jack's profile as he read from a large leather-bound book. They were perfect and lifelike and exact, yet somehow...empty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas took the sketchbook out of his hands and gently folded it closed. “Angels weren't given the breath of life,” he said, his voice quiet in the stillness of the library. “We can't...we can't </span>
  <em>create</em>
  <span>, Sam. All I can do is copy. These are copies of life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam winced. “Maybe you just need some practice. I mean, this is your first time, right? Nobody's perfect their first time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His friend's smile was sad when Cas finally looked up at him. “I feel no inspiration, Sam. I look at the world and nothing calls to me. The flowers and Jack...I chose those because I knew that was what a human might choose. I could have just as easily chosen the scalpels in the infirmary, or the backseat of the Impala, or every doorknob in the bunker. There's no...it's not creation, Sam. They're just copies of life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a sigh, Sam ran one hand through his hair. “Cas, a lot of artists struggle with that. Maybe you just haven't found the right thing yet. With some more time I bet you could find the, the soul of a vase of flowers, or whatever.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas grunted. “Flowers don't have a soul.”</span>
</p><p>“<span>You know what I mean. Artists, they...they capture a part of themselves in the world around them. Their art reflects their own soul, you know?”</span></p><p>“<span>I don't have a soul either, Sam.”</span></p><p>“<span>You know what I mean.” Exasperated, Sam took a few steps away, then paced back again. “When you look at something that kind of pulls at your heart, you can make something that has a bit of your soul in it, you know? It's what humans have done for thousands of years, even longer.”</span></p><p>
  <span>Cas let out a mournful sigh and rubbed one hand over his eyes. “If you could see your own soul you might understand,” he said wearily. “Compared to that even an angel's true form is inadequate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam huffed out a breath. He'd just wanted Cas to have a new experience, maybe find a hobby that could bring him joy. He hadn't meant to start some kind of identity crisis. Then his friend's words caught up to him. “Wait...Cas, are you saying you can see my soul?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His friend gave him a flat look. “I am still an angel.”</span>
</p><p>“<span>No, no, I mean...you can see my soul?”</span></p><p>“<span>Of course, Sam.”</span></p><p>
  <span>Heart pounding, Sam spread his arms out. “Then draw that!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas stared at him for a moment, then slowly shook his head. “Why would you want to see something like that?”</span>
</p><p>“<span>Are you kidding? Of course I want to see it!” Sam turned in a full circle before grabbing one of the library chairs and dragging it in front of Cas. “Is this good? Or, wait, do you need better light?” His soul through the eyes of an angel...who wouldn't want to see that?</span></p><p>
  <span>There was still hesitation in Cas's movements as he slowly picked up his sketchbook and lifted the cover off the box of pastels. “You're sure?”</span>
</p><p>“<span>Absolutely.”</span></p><p>
  <span>Cas flipped to a clean page and stared over the top of the sketchbook at Sam. Sam waited, eyebrows raised expectantly. </span>
</p><p>“<span>Do you need me to do something?” he asked, when Cas made no move to start drawing.</span></p><p>
  <span>Cas frowned, then reached in the box for a pastel. “Just talk. About one of your passions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A passion...okay, Sam could do that. Like Dean had always said, he was a huge nerd. “Oh, I found that book about cuneiform we were talking about,” he said, sitting up a little straighter. “You were right, the author was completely ignorant of the language schism toward the end of the Bronze Age....”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He talked on and on while Cas drew. The angel glanced up at him from time to time, a little smile brightening his face. It was almost exactly the image Sam had conjured in the craft store...Cas with a smear of pigment on his chin, bright colors filling the page in front of him. As he drew the angel seemed to relax, the perpetual slump of his shoulders easing back, the worry lines in his forehead smoothing out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam could have pumped his fist in victory. He knew this had been a good idea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Cas set the pastels down and hesitantly pulled the lid over the box. He seemed unsure of himself again, tipping the picture up to makes sure Sam couldn't see it.</span>
</p><p>“<span>Is it done?” Sam asked. “Can I see?”</span></p><p>
  <span>For a moment he was afraid Cas would refuse, then the angel slowly turned the sketchbook around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam had seen human souls before...or at least he thought he had. They'd been wispy balls of bluish light, nothing too amazing. This was...this was something else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The page was a riot of colors. Sweeping and dazzling, greens and blues with threads of red twisting through them, all turning back in on themselves over and over. There were jagged cracks in the swirling shapes, but they'd been filled in with a golden color so vivid he almost brushed his finger over the page to see if it felt warm. </span>
</p><p>“<span>In some cultures,” Cas's voice was quiet as he explained, “when an item is broken they mend it with gold, so it is more beautiful and valuable because of the cracks.”</span></p><p>
  <span>Sam drew in a breath. “This is how you see my soul?” The cracks...memories of Lucifer and the Cage, everything they'd lost, the darkness he'd hidden for so long...Cas saw them mended in gold?</span>
</p><p>“<span>Oh, Sam,” Cas's hand was warm on his shoulder and he looked up, surprised to see tears in his friend's eyes. “This is </span><em>you</em><span>.”</span></p><p>
  <span>He swallowed and looked back down. There was so much...so much </span>
  <em>hope</em>
  <span>. Despite it being almost incomprehensible swirls of color on paper, he could feel the hope and faith and trust nearly radiating off the page. Was this...was this really what Cas saw in him?</span>
</p><p>“<span>Whoa, am I interrupting something?”</span></p><p>
  <span>Sam pulled back, scrubbing a sleeve over his face. He hadn't even heard Dean coming. “We were just,” he tried to explain, gesturing at the page.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean was staring, tilting his head to one side. “Okay, man, call me crazy, but why does this look like Sammy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He let out a shaky laugh and ran his hands through his hair. “That's my soul, man.”</span>
</p><p>“<span>You drew this, Cas?” Dean was leaning in even closer. “Ha, yeah, there's the little part that died when I told you Santa wasn't real. It really is your soul.”</span></p><p>
  <span>Sam couldn't help but smile at his brother's antics and looked up to meet Cas's eyes. “Can I have this?”</span>
</p><p>“<span>No way,” Dean interrupted, putting his hand on Cas's wrist.</span></p><p>“<span>Dean, it's </span><em>my</em><span> soul.”</span></p><p>“<span>Yeah. We're framing it,” Dean took a step back and held his hands up, like he was envisioning the drawing in a frame. “This is going next to the family pictures, Sammy.”</span></p><p>“<span>We don't have family pictures, Dean.”</span></p><p>“<span>We do now,” Dean clapped Cas on the shoulder. “You should do Jack next. I'll get 'im.”</span></p><p>“<span>Wait,” Sam lunged after his brother. “What about you?”</span></p><p>“<span>Not happening,” Dean replied, easily twisting away from Sam's hand. “Let me go get the kid.”</span></p><p>
  <span>* * *</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack, predictably, was thrilled. He sat in front of his adopted father, eyes bright, as he talked about his first memories of Castiel. Sam stood behind Cas's shoulder and watched the picture take shape—all interlocking golden halos bursting out of a dark shadow, radiating a light that was somehow yellow and blue at the same time that banished that darkness away. It was peace. It was strength. It was family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was Jack.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire and Kaia were next, crowding together into one of the big armchairs with their fingers intertwined. Sam had been expecting some kind of double drawing, maybe two pages side-by-side, but the drawing Cas produced was somehow </span>
  <em>Claire,</em>
  <span> somehow </span>
  <em>Kaia</em>
  <span>, and somehow a blend of the two of them that went beyond anything the human eye could see.</span>
</p><p>“<span>That's what it looks like to be soulmates,” Cas explained when Sam asked. </span></p><p>
  <span>When they went back to Jody's house with the girls, Jody sat for a drawing. Her soul was all graceful arcs swooping around a central, solid core. Sam could almost feel it extending beyond the page, pulling them all together around the woman who had chosen to care for the motherless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were others, as hunters checked in at the bunker or they met them in the field. Eileen's soul was a fury of purple and silver, sharp with the kind of love that dove into battle with sword held high. Bobby's was a blend of muted shades that spoke to the loss the older hunter had experienced, and his determination to carry on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam was dropping a new sketchbook in Cas's room one day, a few weeks later, when he spotted a few loose papers that had fallen out of the old one. Meaning just to pick them up and shuffle them back in, he was startled to find he had a picture of </span>
  <em>Dean's soul</em>
  <span> in his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It couldn't be anything else. While Sam's had had cracks mended with brilliant gold, Dean's looked like it had been broken and pushed in on itself over and over, more like overlapping plates of ice from a lake that had been melted and refrozen. There were layers and sharp edges, and a few twisting shadows of darkness that lingered in odd corners.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it was </span>
  <em>warm</em>
  <span>. Despite the cracks and the broken parts...despite the trauma and ache and pain it was </span>
  <em>good</em>
  <span>. It was the soul of a man who loved so completely he would—and had—lay down his life for his family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He heard a shuffle from the doorway, and turned to see Cas was standing there, staring at the paper in his hands with something like guilt on his face. “Sam, I...”</span>
</p><p>“<span>When did you draw this?” Sam asked in a whisper. “He kept saying he didn't want you to do it.”</span></p><p>
  <span>Cas hesitated, then approached close enough to gently take the drawing from Sam's hands. “It was from memory. Dean and I have always had a connection, since I pulled him from Hell.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam almost laughed. “A more profound bond?” he teased. Cas's lips twitched in a smile and he nodded. “We should hang it up with the others.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Cas frowned down at the drawing. “He keeps saying no one would want to see it.”</span>
</p><p>“<span>Well, he's wrong,” Sam looped an arm around Cas's shoulders. “Come on, I know where he stashed the extra frames.”</span></p>
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